


Saturday

by irrationalgame



Series: Days [1]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Character Development, General, M/M, introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-03
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-14 10:31:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1262977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irrationalgame/pseuds/irrationalgame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a Saturday morning.</p><p>Although when you were in service, Thomas noted, it made little difference what day it was. Unless it happened to be your half-day, in which case it mattered very much.</p><p>It was not, however, Thomas's half-day this particular Saturday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saturday

**Author's Note:**

> Set post season four.
> 
> Thommy if you squint.

_There’s nothing you can do,_  
 _There’s nothing you can say,_  
 _To make my problems go away_  
 _Or to make me do the same._

_From the outside, my dealings,_  
 _Pour me outside, bottled feeling._  
 _For a mountain, marbled ceiling._  
 _Commence the healing._

_Saturday - Built to Spill._

It was a Saturday morning. 

Although when you were in service, Thomas noted, it made little difference what day it was. Unless it happened to be your half-day, in which case it mattered very much. 

It was not, however, Thomas’s half-day this particular Saturday. 

So it was a Saturday much like any other of the innumerable Saturdays Thomas had spent in service - it was a Saturday that was not his to enjoy, the first day of a weekend that was not under his ownership; just twenty-four more hours of tidying and cleaning and organising and _serving_ so that others (who, ironically, understood little of the value of it) could enjoy _their_ weekend. 

Thomas supposed it could be worse - he recalled the days when he was a hall boy and at the beck-and-call of, it had seemed, the entire household - both upstairs and down. At least now he had some semblance of authority, even if he were only the ‘under’ butler, rather than the patriarch himself. And with that mite of authority came the opportunity to make others enjoy their ‘weekend’ even less than he knew he would himself. Thomas smirked and settled himself in his usual chair at the servants’ hall table and considered who’s day he could ruin and exactly _how_. 

It was petty, he knew, but Thomas’s life offered up so little satisfaction that he allowed himself some leeway in his behaviour - he needed an outlet for his formidable frustration and it was either cause a little inconsequential trouble or scream and swear in everyone’s faces until he was fired. The former seemed preferable, although somedays he had to bite his tongue and close his fists into tight little balls and smoke cigarettes end-to-end so as not to engage in the latter. 

Thomas mused it was his own failure to escape, his own bad luck and ineptitude, his own particular proclivities, that were the source of his frustration, rather than those whom he worked with. But Thomas had learned in his youth that reviling and blaming oneself only oiled the gears of melancholy and, if you gave yourself over to it, would end in a spiralling depression, egged ever onwards by the growing monster of self-hatred. It was better, if only by degrees, to aim resentment outwards, towards other people - their suffering would be minor and Thomas’s relief great indeed. 

It was all, in Thomas’s opinion, justifiable. 

Not to mention his perilous position. It was one thing to be unashamed of his homosexuality; it was entirely another to have the whole household know about it. After all, he had no burning desire to be thrown in prison. It had caused Thomas a great many sleepless nights to know that anyone, if they chose, could ruin him on a whim and he doubted Lord Grantham or Carson would put themselves out to protect him again. There was only so much scandal they would bear before they sent him packing. It irked Thomas deeply that his fate was dependant on the kindness of others - if there was one thing Thomas had vowed to be, it was independent. He was a (mostly) self-made man and he thought if anything, that should earn him the right to be the master of his own undoing, at the very least. In his mind the only way to scrape back an ounce of security was to know things, to be privy to all the dark secrets and skeleton-filled closets he could, so when the time came and he was backed into a corner, he would at least have some ammunition. 

A fighting chance was all he’d ever wanted, really. 

The under-butler gazed surreptitiously around the table, eyeing up possible targets as more of his colleagues filed in on weary feet and started about their breakfast. Carson, Mrs Hughes and Mrs Patmore were, of course, off-limits - any attempt to meddle in their doings was more trouble than it was worth, the anxiety it would cause would be greater than the relief (and, Thomas supposed, the self-satisfaction) it could result in if all went to plan. 

But Thomas had learned that things very rarely went to plan and it wasn’t worth getting himself into a mess that he couldn’t easily extract himself from. And furthermore, it would be unwise to upset Mr Hughes and burn one of the last bridges he had left. Thomas considered that of all the staff, he probably liked Mrs Hughes best - or rather he disliked her least, at any rate. 

Apart, of course, from Jimmy. 

Jimmy had taken the chair directly opposite Thomas, as he was in the habit of doing, and smiled earnestly by way of a greeting. Whatever plan Thomas had in mind, Jimmy would most certainly not be the target. Thomas had risked his own reputation enough times, whilst fixing Jimmy’s mistakes or covering up his poor work, to know he would do anything for his (only) friend. To hurt him was unthinkable - this throat tightened at the mere suggestion of it. 

Next to Jimmy sat incorruptible Anna and her husband Bates, deep in what was probably a nauseatingly righteous conversation. As much as Thomas wanted, yearned even, to make Bates the focus of his less-than-benevolent intentions and watch the man unravel, he hadn’t the nerve for it. Once upon a time, when he was younger, braver (or stupider) and in a less tenuous position, he would have jumped at the chance to make life difficult for the valet. But experience had taught Thomas that it was best to leave Bates, and by extension Anna, alone. Even O’Brien, who was the far more competent schemer, had been unable to beat Mr Bates in the end, and had instead beaten a hasty retreat - all the way to India. 

Besides which, Thomas harboured no ill-will towards Anna herself. She was neither friend nor enemy and honestly, barely registered on Thomas’s radar. She was nice, almost cloyingly so, and although Thomas could see why the rest of the downstairs staff liked her so, he preferred insidiousness to insipidness in _his_ allies. 

Then there was the matter of being somewhat indebted to Bates - for whatever self-righteous reason, the valet had worked to help Thomas keep his job. Thomas wondered if it was simply so Bates could lord it over Thomas with a smug grin, as if to say _"look how good I am - I’d even help_ you _,”_ or if Bates actually was that much of a martyr that he’d put himself out for an enemy. _Love thy enemy indeed,_ Thomas thought bitterly. 

Daisy hurried in from the kitchen, a look somewhere between exasperation and defeat drawn onto her face, and plonked a huge pile of toast on the centre of the table. Thomas recalled when Daisy had been a browbeaten, mousey little creature, who he had easily manipulated for his own benefit. He felt the unfamiliar burn of shame rise in his throat like indigestion at the way he’d uncaringly led the girl on, comparing it to the pain he’d felt when Jimmy had done the same to him. No, he wouldn’t scheme against Daisy ever again. And Thomas fancied the assistant cook would be much harder to exploit nowadays - she’d grown into a quick and sometimes sarcastic character who was no longer afraid to say what she thought. 

With that handful of colleagues eliminated, it was slim-pickings as to who Thomas could target. Thomas poured himself a cup of tea whilst evaluating the remaining possibilities: there were the hall boys, Peter and Will, but that was pointless - Thomas had the authority to instruct them to do whatever he liked, within reason, and there was little to be gained from holding something over the head of an inconsequential hall boy. Similarly so for the housemaids, except for the added danger of them running to Mrs Hughes should he try to exert any authority over them. 

There was, of course, Baxter, but Thomas’s efforts thus far to coerce the lady’s maid into anything had been unfruitful. He would get what he wanted from her, sooner or later - he just needed to find another way to bring Miss Baxter under his thumb. And to eliminate her new-found ‘white knight’ Molesley from the situation. 

Molesley. Poor, bumbling, blundering Molesley. 

The man had worse luck than Thomas - he’d somehow managed to achieve his career backwards, starting as a butler and ending as a second footman, by way of a delivery man and a labourer. He was clueless and hopeless, but was, apparently, unafraid of the under-butler. And he was unlikely to take Thomas’s ‘bullying’ lying down, especially now he was enamoured with Miss Baxter. Thomas shuddered at the possibility of there ever being a baby, fifty percent Molesley and fifty percent Baxter. It didn’t bear thinking about. 

So, out of the whole downstairs staff, was there really no-one he was willing, or able, to take advantage of? Of course, Thomas assured himself that his reticence was simply due to practical limitations, and most definitely not because he had any semblance of _affection_ for his coworkers. Thomas shook his head, chagrined - he was going positively _soft_. 

“What is it Mr Barrow?” Jimmy asked, his over-expressive face crumpled with concern. “You look,” Jimmy lowered his voice, ” - unhappy?” 

“I’m fine Jimmy,” Thomas replied, “I were just lost in thought.” 

“Penny for them?” Anna added, her little bow of a mouth pulling upwards in a genuinely warm smile. 

“I - I was just thinking how much everything has changed in the years I’ve been here,” Thomas lied. Well, it wasn’t exactly untrue - the Thomas of ten years ago wouldn’t have hesitated to throw himself knee-deep into a plot against _anyone_. Then again, that Thomas was silly and vain and, secretly, unbearably unhappy. 

“You most of all, I’d say,” Bates interjected and Thomas felt a blush crawl up from his collar. 

“Really?” Jimmy grinned, amused and apparently intrigued at the exchange. “I’d like to have known the young Mr Barrow.” 

“I’m not sure you would have liked him much,” Thomas said, surprised by his own honestly. “Although tales of my disagreeableness have been vastly exaggerated.” 

“But it’s your disagreeableness I enjoy most of all,” Jimmy laughed. Anna, Bates, and even Mrs Hughes chuckled along with him. 

“Hmmph,” Carson remarked, “having known Mr Barrow for the majority of his career, I’d say he’s vastly improved with age and experience.” The table fell into a state of stunned silence - Carson rarely commended anyone, least of all the under-butler. “That’s not to say there’s not still some improvement to be made,” he added hastily. 

“Well that’s high praise indeed,” Mrs Hughes observed wryly, “and I’m inclined to agree with it.” 

“I - well - thank you,” Thomas said awkwardly, lighting a cigarette so as to excuse himself from saying anything else on the matter. He stared at his lighter, flipping the lid open and softly thumbing it shut, a funny sort of warmth spreading through his chest. He wasn’t loved by his colleagues, that much he knew for certain, but perhaps - just perhaps - he wasn’t entirely _loathed_ either. Jimmy’s knee knocked against Thomas’s under the table - once, tentatively, and then again more insistently. Thomas glanced up and found Jimmy’s blue eyes on him, a look of unguarded affection played upon his face and - just for a fleeting moment - something else, a look a Thomas recognised undeniably as desire. 

Thomas decided that maybe this Saturday wouldn’t be quite as objectionable as he had feared. 

Maybe. 

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't really know where I was going with this - hopefully it sort of addresses Thomas's behaviour in season 4. Ish.


End file.
